Marrying Her Enemy & Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

  The knowledge fired something like strength in her blood and she met his eyes with new-found confidence.

  “Do you remember what I said to you, the first day we met?”

  His fingers found the bow at her back and he pulled on it, his eyes lightly mocking in his handsome face.

  “That you were the man I was going to marry,” she responded with a waspish sarcasm that brought a smile to his face.

  “That you would be mine.”

  Kylie sucked in a breath at the reminder – the words dug into her core, whispering through her.

  “And I said people can’t own people.”

  His smile was dismissive. “And what did I say to that?”

  He removed the gold fabric easily, dropping it beside them. Her eyes followed it as it slithered through the air and then pooled at her feet. He took a step back to observe her, his eyes moving from the elaborate hairstyle to her bare face, to the body that was covered in fabric and ribbon, and she saw that admiration shimmered in his expression.

  “For hundreds of years, this is what Argenese princesses have worn on their wedding nights.”

  Her throat was thick with emotion, and amongst them there was a deep sense of awe. That she was a princess of Argenon now. That she had married its ruler and joined history. This would always be her truth, no matter what came next.

  “It’s nice,” she said, wincing at the silly weakness of the description. Nice was fine for lemon cake or fires on cool days, but it was not sufficient to describe the dress she wore and the history it shrouded her in.

  “Yes.” His fingers lifted higher but didn’t touch. He hovered them above her shoulders and she sucked in a breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned and thickened inside of her and then she expelled it, unsteadily, hurriedly. “Well, lanaria? Do you still think people cannot own people?”

  She swallowed, hating herself for being uncertain. For hesitating and pausing when every fibre of her being was telling her to fight this point. That it mattered. And it did! Of course it did. Only she was silent for a long moment, and then, his hands dropped to her flesh, looping into the ribbons and separating them out, finding the knots that her servants had tied and loosening them one by one. His head was bent as he worked and she watched him, unable to speak – barely able to breathe.

  Finally, though, he had loosened enough of the ribbon to pull the dress away from her body and he widened it, so that she was tempted to lift her hands and cover her front. But how could she? How could she show such juvenile weakness?

  She didn’t.

  She tilted her chin and met his eyes unflinchingly as he released the gown and it fell to the floor. She stood before him, naked and soft all over and didn’t cross her arms or so much as move.

  Except for her knees, which were knocking together beyond her control.

  “It smells like the ocean.” The words came from nowhere. Until she spoke them, she hadn’t even realised she’d been thinking them.

  “It is the water.” He nodded towards it and she nodded. His voice though was gravelly. Thick with emotions she didn’t dare analyse.

  He stood back, his eyes on hers as he reached for his own robes and parted them down the front, separating them fluidly and stepping out of them. They fell to the floor and her gaze dropped to his body against her will and certainly without permission.

  His chest was glorious. Just as she remembered. Broad and defined by muscles, tanned, with a thick line of hair that ran down to the waistband of a pair of loose white pants. She swallowed, her eyes moving lower, down his legs to his bare feet.

  Heat seared her flesh.

  “Come to me.”

  Say no! Tell him you’re not ready. But her hands lifted and he curled his fingers around them, drawing her naked body nearer.

  “You’re nervous?”

  She shook her head but the eyes that met his showed pure agreement. How could she be anything but?

  “Don’t be.” He dropped his head lower, his mouth just an inch from hers. “You know I do not bite.”

  She swallowed; her throat was dry though, dry like the desert sands that she knew blew just beyond the southern wall of the palace.

  “This room is amazing,” she whispered the words, her body swaying closer, her nipples straining. Her chest was almost at his and she ached to close the last little bit of space between them, to feel skin on skin.

  “Is it?”

  He lifted a hand and distractedly swirled it over the side of her body, drawing imaginary circles on her hip and lifting it higher. Goosebumps sprung instantly, covering her naked flesh.

  “You have been prepared,” the words were thick with something. Anger? Annoyance? Disapproval? Desire? And at her look of confusion, he dropped a hand to her womanhood, padding his thumb across the flesh that had been waxed earlier that day.

  She moaned, the sound low in her throat, as she swayed forward. But before she could touch him, he lifted her up, cradling her against his chest, striding with her over the marble floor. She breathed him in, inhaling his scent, her head pressed to his chest hearing the thunder of his heart.

  There was enough floor around the bed to make it easy for him to stand beside it and he placed her down gently, standing over her, watching her, his eyes heavy in his beautiful face. His hair was up in the same messy bun it had been the first day they met. She ached to touch it. To touch him.

  She sat up, pushing onto her elbows at the same moment he pressed lower, his lips seeking hers and his body warm and heavy. Just as she remembered. She groaned again, the sound a carnal grunt from deep inside.

  The water lapped softly around them but Kylie barely heard it. He caught her arms and pushed them over her head, his tongue thrashing hers, his body moving over hers, dominating her in every way.

  “You want this,” he spoke the words yet paused, lifting his head, his eyes meeting hers. There was a challenge in them, one she didn’t understand but nonetheless raced to answer.

  “You know I do.” And she did. It was the one thing about this that made sense. The rest? She would need time and space to unravel it all – and soon. The strangeness of that afternoon was chafing at the edges of her mind, foggy and demanding. But she knew she would need to unravel everything that had taken place.

  “And what would you have done, azeezi, if I hadn’t appeared when I did?”

  His fingers curled around her nipples, teasing her and tormenting her in equal measure. He flexed his thumb and forefinger over her hardened peak, and she arched her back, desire a torrent she was powerless to stem.

  It was a good question. Kylie liked to think she would have been able to put a halt to the wedding until she’d ascertained just what the heck was going on. But having seen the way Fayez reacted to Khalifa, she wasn’t so sure.

  “You hate him, don’t you?” She changed the subject instead.

  “Yes.” Such a simple answer that surely hid a complex truth.

  He dragged his mouth lower, his tongue teasing the sensitive flesh beneath her breasts before looping down her flat abdomen, circling her naval and then lower still. She ground her teeth together when his tongue flicked the naked flesh of her womanhood, his breath warm against her skin.

  “Do you want to know why?”

  Why the hell what? She was incapable of thought from the second his tongue pressed against her most sensitive cluster of nerves. It was a paralysing kind of pleasure and her body trembled as he ran his tongue against her, his movements fast-pace and hungry and her body in his thrall utterly.

  But it was so intimate! So much! She dropped her hand lower, intending to push him away – needing time to process the enormity of what he was making her feel.

  He didn’t give her time or space. He understood her ache – her fear – her powerlessness in the throes of such a primal passion, but he wanted her to feel it. He caught her hand and squeezed it, holding it aside as his mouth found the centre of her desire and tormented it mercilessly.

  Her cries were hig
h-pitched and loud – she didn’t realise. He let go of her wrist and she didn’t try to interfere.

  She couldn’t.

  She had surrendered to him and the power he wielded with every single cell in her body.

  He caught her knees and pushed them outwards so that her body was completely exposed to him and now the sense of his lips against her body, the warm air from his nostrils, the tickle of his stubbled jaw on her inner-thighs, combined to create a melting-pot of fever and ache, or longing and lust, that was coiling inside her like a tightly-wound spring. She felt it growing, spreading through her and she held her breath and squeezed shut her eyes, waiting, knowing, understanding that pleasure was within reach – release was a hill down which she would shortly tumble.

  And tumble she did – fast-paced and reckless, she screamed as finally her body let go of its orgasm; she dug her nails into the bedsheet and tilted her head back as far as she could, the diamond ribbon that had been laced through her braids bumpy beneath her – yet she didn’t feel it.

  She felt nothing but the eruption of passion and the racing of her heart within her chest.

  She felt nothing but him.

  She was quivering, alive with sense and feeling. Had it really been a month since he’d made her feel like this? No, he’d never made her feel like this.

  It was all new.

  Different, strange and entirely welcome.

  He undressed quickly – even before she realised it. The waves were hammering against her, pleasure making her eyes heavy and her brain fogged. She lifted her fingers and sought his chest. His eyes met hers and for a second she was sucked out of the fog of desire permeating her brain – there was a hardness in his gaze. An emotional distance that instantly chilled her. But then, he thrust inside of her in one hard motion, spearing her, taking her, making her body forget who she was – remaking her as his and his alone.

  She groaned at the invasion; the sweet, sweet invasion, but there was no time to let the pleasure unfold. He thrust into her again and again, his body punishing in its intensity, her own body captive to his.

  Breath burned in her lungs and desire was making her dizzy. She curled her legs around his waist but he wrapped his fingers around her thighs and pushed her legs wider before curling his hands around her butt and lifting her to meet his sweet, torturous invasion.

  It was a different pleasure – so much more intense than the slow-building ache of his mouth on her body, this was fast and loud, like a balloon bursting. She pushed up to sitting when her orgasm reached fever pitch and he drew her body to his, his mouth seeking hers, his tongue lashing hers in time with his arousal’s possession. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and held onto him for dear life but he didn’t allow her the time to process the feeling. He held her against him for only a moment, enjoying the shuddering of her breath as it ripped from her body and the exaltations of her muscles, squeezing his length in frantic rebellion and then he lifted her easily, holding her to him, keeping himself deep inside of her as he stepped away from the bed.

  The water against her feet was unexpected and she bucked in his arms, but he held her low on his arousal, his mouth still seeking hers. It was warm, though, and the feeling of being immersed in the pool as he buried himself in her was a pleasure she almost couldn’t fathom.

  When he was waist deep, he tilted her backwards, so that she was floating on the surface, and he drove into her, holding her weightless form by the hips so that he could possess her with all of himself. She whimpered when his mouth crushed down on her breast and her next orgasm was the fiercest of all. He watched her, holding her still this time, holding himself still.

  Her moans were soft and yet they filled the space, echoing around the ancient room. He rolled his hips and she shuddered with awareness.

  And then he moved once more and his own body was tipping over, his seed spilling into her, his heart heavy in his chest.

  There was silence afterwards, and an almost eerie stillness, heavy in the room.

  He held her, watched her floating on her back in the crystal clear water, and gently eased her back to sitting, wrapping her around him. Her hair was wet, her body heavy with exhaustion.

  And he understood that feeling – could remember his own sexual awakening, though it had been many years ago. He could recall that sense of having been drugged; the way pleasure spread through one’s body and weakened it. As opposed to how he felt in that moment – strong. Superhuman.

  He carried her from the water in his arms and placed her on her feet back on the marbled tiles. It was the first time she saw the stacks of towels – a pale colour and enormous. He wrapped one around her shoulders, patting her dry, rubbing her body, crouching in front of her to be sure even her ankles were dried, and then he stood.

  “There is a door to your room through here.” He put a hand in the small of her back, gloriously naked, her eyes holding the wall ahead.

  She frowned as she turned to it.

  But Khalifa was walking now, guiding her to it.

  “Our rooms are linked through this corridor.” He turned a key in the door and it sprung open, revealing a small tunnel with dim lights on either side. She could just make out another door at the opposite end.

  Kylie nodded, waiting for him to shut the door.

  He didn’t.

  “My days are busy. But I will send for you at night. Or come to your room.” He took a step back, his expression distant and unfamiliar. “Aïna will answer any questions you have.”

  He was dismissing her?

  She blinked up at him, her confusion obvious. “Are you … you want me to … you don’t want me to stay?”

  His eyes drew together, his brows thick and low on his forehead.

  “Why would I want you to stay?”

  Colour stained her cheeks. Pain slashed her heart and her body, still weakened by his attentions, iced over. She bit down on her lip, searching for something she could say. Something brave and pithy.

  And for a second she thought she saw a softening in his expression – a softening that promised humanity and normality. Then, it was gone.

  “This is not a real marriage.” He spoke slowly, as though comprehension was an issue. “It is important that you remember that.”

  Chapter 7

  KYLIE TOLD HERSELF THAT she wasn’t waiting for him. That she was simply sitting in bed reading. But as the night bled into the middle night and her body began to revolt against its desertion, her temper increased.

  So he wasn’t coming for her?

  Well, fine.

  She folded the page of her book over, placing it on the bedside table at her side and crossing her arms over her chest.

  Her own bedroom was every bit as beautiful as the room they’d made love in. Though it lacked the incredible swimming pool beneath the bed, it boasted ancient timber doors that led to a Juliette balcony. It overlooked the city in one direction and the desert in another and there were exotic plants in pots that formed the impression of a jungle in the sky. She stood restlessly, her feet bare as she padded across the tiled floor towards the outside world.

  It had been a balmy day – hot and sultry – but the night was cool. She pushed the doors outwards with relief, enjoying the desert wind that grazed her skin and spread cool over her flesh. A bird sung as she moved and she paused, trying to catch the direction from which its distinctive call came. The desert. She moved to that side of the balcony, lifting a flower from a bush as she went, breathing in its intoxicating sweetness.

  Everything was more. More fragrant, more heady, more beautiful.

  She arched her arms over her head and then propped her elbows on the balustrade, staring out at the land, seeing the way the wind shifted sand with its invisible strength.

  Even the sky took on a different quality here, in this small country on the edge of the world. It was inky and black, but somehow liquid, and clouds whisped across it like ships lost at sea. The stars sparkled but they were powerless to guide the clouds; they flou
ndered and forgot.

  Her day had been busy, if not exactly productive. As with the day before, a steady stream of servants appeared, all under Aïna’s guidance, to consult with Kylie. A chef spent an hour inquiring as to Kylie’s preferred meals, asking if there were favourites and when she generally liked to eat. Kylie had expected to fit in with local customs; in fact, one of her nannies had refused to let her eat anything other than Argenese food and as a result she had grown to love many of the nationalistic dishes, like goats cheese with dried quince and lamb cooked with honey and pomegranate. She’d even acquired a taste – though it had taken quite some time – for the spread that was made from pistachio and orange peel – a really nutty marmalade that people tended to love or hate.

  So having a chef who was prepared to cook her anything she desired was unexpected.

  Kylie had furnished him with a list of her favourites, though truly, she wasn’t sure she cared and then Aïna had shown in the next appointment; this time, a tailor. A tall, slender woman with impeccable hair and makeup, dressed in a colourful gown, flat leather shoes and dozens of bangles that had made musical sounds as she’d gesticulated.

  She’d measured Kylie, held swatches of fabric to her skin to determine which colours were most flattering and then she’d measured Kylie all over, her fingers moving deftly. She’d seen the bruising on Kylie’s neck – it was far worse a day after the fact and she suspected it would continue to worsen over the coming days – but had said nothing, simply strung her tape in a different direction and jotted something down in her book.

  “There will be a cobbler to measure your feet and he and I will coordinate with outfits,” she nodded.

  “Is this really necessary?” Kylie asked Aïna when they were alone once more.

  “Of course, madam. You are the Queen of Argenon. What do you expect?”

  She bit down on her lip, the overwhelming realisation that she was, indeed queen of this ancient kingdom, sat strangely around her shoulders.

  After the tailer and the cobbler there’d been the Keeper of the Jewels, an intimidating man who must surely have been a century old, holding a leather diary in his waxy fingers. He sat beside Kylie and spoke reverentially – though his reverence was reserved for the subject matter of his book rather than his royal appointment.